


Putting the "ass" in Assassin

by Idontwritefanficx



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-26 16:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3857839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idontwritefanficx/pseuds/Idontwritefanficx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wait, so... what exactly are you offering me?” </p><p>Max stared at him seriously before asking a question. </p><p>“Mickey, how do you feel about murder?”</p><p>-AU where Mickey left Chicago sometime during season two and is a professional assassin. How long will it be before he runs into someone he thought he left in the past?</p><p> </p><p>THIS WORK HAS BEEN ABANDONED</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. See how we run

Mickey had once believed he was fucked for life. Growing up in Southside meant he could see little in his future but prison sentences, drug deals, and bar brawls. The only things he was good at were video games, starting fights, and shooting (occasionally moving) targets. It came to his massive surprise that these things were actually what got him out of the Chicago slums.

He had noticed from the beginning: he was being cased. It started when he left the house to go to the Alibi one day, and the noticeably expensive car with black tinted windows on the opposite side of the street slowly trailed behind him. Whoever was in it wasn't even trying to hide, and Mickey wasn't one to let things slide either. So doing what he thought was the most rational thing to do, he started yelling abuse at the car, waving his arms and drawing plenty of attention to himself. He assumed they were coming for drugs, or to get to Terry, or maybe he had just pissed someone off and they wanted revenge. Whatever the reason, the car just drove off, obviously not pleased with his response and Mickey saw nothing through the black windows of the car as it passed him but his own blurry reflection glaring back at himself.

\--

The next contact came a week later. Mickey had been shooting cans under the El and chain smoking his way through a pack of cigarettes. A man in a leather jacket and sunglasses strode up to Mickey slowly with his hands in his pockets. 

“You won't be around much longer if you keep smoking that much”, the man said, stopping a few feet away from Mickey.

“You won't be around much longer if you don't piss the fuck off”, Mickey retorted angrily. Who the fuck wears sunglasses in Chicago anyways? 

The man merely tilted his head at Mickey. Mickey turned around angrily and raised the hand with the gun. “You want me to fuckin' use this? Fuck the fuck off!” he yelled.

The other man only smirked, raised his hands in mock surrender and walked away.

\--

Only the next day, Mickey was in the Alibi, minding his own business, when he was approached by the same man from before. The man waved at Kev, ordered a drink, and sat down in the seat next to Mickey. The man had lost his sunglasses, but was still wearing the same worn leather jacket. He was older than Mickey, mid to late thirties, handsome but with lines across his forehead and under his eyes. Mickey looked up as the man sat down, and huffed out a breath in anger. “You stalking me or something, man?” 

The stranger looked him up and down, smirking. “Technically, yes,” he replied casually. Mickey raised an eyebrow at the man's casual tone. “Look, man, you want drugs, talk to my brother Iggy.” The other man only smirked again, shaking his head.

“Nah, Mickey, I'm here for you.”

Mickey narrowed his eyes. That didn't sound good. Something about the man's confidence was unnerving him. He was about to say something (maybe a question, maybe a threat, he hadn't quite decided) when Frank Gallagher burst into the bar raving something about how the “is Pluto a planet” debate was a metaphor for him being kicked out of his house. Mickey rolled his eyes and turned back to the man in the jacket, but the seat was empty. Mickey looked around, but the man was definitely gone. Mickey shrugged and finished the man's drink.

\--

Five days later Mickey was walking home from his shift at the Kash and Grab. Ian had been working too, so there certainly was some grabbing involved. Mickey's mouth curled upwards around his cigarette, thinking of the bruises he was going to have tomorrow. He got to his street when the large black car pulled up beside him. The driver's mirror rolled down and the man in the same old leather jacket was staring out at him. Mickey rolled his eyes – he should've known this fucker would be back sooner or later.

“Get in”, the man said.

Mickey raised his eyebrows and thumbed his lip. “Oh, right, yeah, lemme just get in the car with my fuckin' stalker, we'll go for a drive, maybe get a burger...” The man just rolled his eyes and said “I'm not gonna kill you, Mickey.” Mickey, of course laughed out loud at this. Saying “I'm not gonna kill you” to someone really isn't that reassuring.

“I just wanna talk,” the man continued. “I've got a possible job for you, if you're interested.”

Mickey stopped laughing – in this neighbourhood the mention of money could get anyone to stop and listen. 

“I'm not pushing drugs if that's what your asking”, Mickey warned. He knew better than to carry the big stuff – sure, he expected to serve a couple of jail sentences in the future, but he didn't wanted to spend his entire life behind bars.

“It's not drugs.” The man reached over and opened the passenger door, and for some strange reason, Mickey got in.

 

\--

“Well?” he asked impatiently. “What's the job?”

The older man looked at him thoughtfully. “Where do you see yourself in ten years, Mickey?” 

Mickey didn't answer. He was surprised at the question, and a bit annoyed. He wanted a job, not an interrogation. Why was his life this creeps business anyway?

“Why do you fucking care? Look, you got a job for me or not? I got shit to do.” 

The man took a deep breath before speaking again. He reached out towards Mickey and Mickey flinched instinctively – a natural reflex after growing up with Terry. The man stopped his movements, looking at Mickey curiously, but then continuing on on his path to the glove compartment at Mickey's knees. Mickey relaxed slightly but remained still with his eyes rained on the man, who rummaged through fast food wrappers and empty cigarette packets until he pulled out an ID. Handing it to Mickey, he started speaking.

“My name is Max Parsons. I'm part of an organisation that deals in... well, some less than legal ventures. You have come to our attention, and after watching you the last few days, I am quite sure you are exactly the kind of person we're looking for.” Mickey narrowed his eyes. The name on the ID matched what the man had said, but it didn't give Mickey any more information. The man, Max, started speaking again.

“We need people with certain... skills, and you seem to have some of the skills we need. I saw you shooting that gun of yours the other day, and you hit the target every time. The other major factor that makes you a good choice for this job, Mickey, is that you won't be noticed. You won't be missed. You can leave this shitty neighbourhood and no one will even notice you left.” 

What Max was saying made sense, but Mickey still had no idea what hewas talking about. He was also torn between being flattered that someone thought he was good at something and being annoyed because it was true that no one would miss him if he just got up and left. He didn't know which of the many questions tumbling around in his head to ask first. “Wait, so... what exactly are you offering me?” 

Max stared at him seriously before asking a question. 

“Mickey, how do you feel about murder?”

\--

Mickey raised an eyebrow. Despite being raised in a household where the number of guns outweighed the number of people, he hadn't actually had much experience with death, let alone murder. His mother had overdosed on the floor of the living room when he was thirteen and he had dug a couple of graves over the years for the mexican drug dealers down the street for thirty bucks each, but he had never actually seen the bodies that went into them. He was more into beating his problems with a baseball bat than beating them to death.

But he just shrugged, acting indifferent to the question. “Why, you looking for a leg breaker? Need someone to pay up?” While not being the biggest fan of “shoot now, ask questions later”, Mickey did have experience in splitting the kneecaps of people who refused to pay their debts. It was a job he was comfortable with, familiar with. It was a job he enjoyed.

Max merely shook his head. “Not quite.We would need you to do something a bit more permanent than a broken leg.”

Mickey was shocked. “You want me to be a fuckin' hitman?” He couldn't believe how ridiculous he sounded. Max only nodded. “Pretty much”, he said simply.

“We have the money and the facilities to train you up, you'll get some training in hand to hand contact, but mostly we'll have you concentrating on long range attacks. Basically you're gonna be doing what you were doing under the El, but with a bigger gun and a body instead of a can.”

What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck?

“Seriously? You want me to be – what? An assassin? What do I look like, the fuckin' Black Widow or some shit?” Mickey shook his head from side to side, trying to grasp what he was being offered.

“No, Mickey, actually, you look like the perfect man for the job.” 

Max handed him a phone number written on the back of a receipt and opened the passenger door. Mickey was startled with the rush of cold air suddenly around him, bringing him to his senses. He stumbled out of the car awkwardly and turned back to Max, who gave him a small smile. “Take your time making a decision. I know this must be shocking to you.” Yeah, no shit. Mickey thought inwardly. “Just remember this Mickey – you can get out. Travel, learn, live... You can't do that here. This job can take you so many places. If you stay here, what, you gonna work in a shop for the rest of your life? Be in out and out of jail twice before you're thirty, live the same mundane, pointless life until you or someone else puts a bullet in your brain. There is so much out there Mickey, you have no idea. So go home, think it over. Is there anything here you'd actually be giving up?” Mickey's mind flashed to Gallagher for one terrifying second, but he shook the thought out of his mind. If he took the deal, he could get sex anywhere. Gallagher wasn't going to be the thing that stopped him from getting out of Southside, away from Terry.

Max said one more thing that stuck with him before driving off. “Call me when you've made your decision. Oh and Mickey, one more time – where do you see yourself in ten years?” Mickey remained speechless, and with a grin, Max pulled the door closed and drove away.

\--

Later that night, Mickey was sitting on the couch smoking a joint he found sitting on the kitchen table.He gazed at the tv he had put on mute, staring at the moving bodies without realy seeing them. He thought about all the things Max had said. He knew if he stayed here, his future would be much the same as his past – boring and angry, slow and painful. If he went with Max, he would be committing murder – actual murder. He knew better than anyone he wasn't exactly a saint, but Mickey had never planned on actually killing anyone. Sure he had wished for Terry's death more than a few times, and had pictured splitting Lip Fucking Gallagher's skull with a hammer, but he wasn't a killer. 

Or was he?

Mandy strode in the front door sometime after eleven and was surprised to see him lying motionless in front of the silent tv. “The fuck are you doing, douchebag?” she spat at him, their relationship being based on insults and swear words and never showing affection of any kind, and he was used to it.

“Would you miss me?” Mickey couldn't help but ask, knowing that right now calling Max looked like a really good idea.

“The fuck are you talking about Mickey?” He rolled his eyes and stood up. “If I skipped town, would you care?” Mandy narrowed her eyes. 

“Why? You leaving?” She tried to look emotionless, but her eyes gave her away. It made something inside Mickey feel sick. Was he really going to leave her to fend for herself in a house of wolves?

He shrugged. “Maybe, not sure yet.” He wished he had a beer in his hands right now.

Mandy stared at him hard. They had always been closer than the rest of their siblings, partly because they were closest in age, and partly because they were the only ones that weren't absolute dickheads. “If you wanna go Mick, you should.”

He looked up at her, surprised. “You think?”

She smirked. “Yeah, I mean, anywhere's gotta be better than this shithole, right?” 

Mickey tried to hide a smile. Why was he happy about signing up for a career as a professional assassin? Wow, Terry had fucked him up real bad. 

He rang Max half an hour later. He knew there was some sort of rule about not calling someone for three days after you get their number but as Mickey wasn't planning on sleeping with Max, he figured calling now was okay. They arranged a time to meet up the next day when Terry was sure to be out of the house so he couldn't stop Mickey from leaving. Mickey packed his stuff quickly and Mandy stayed with him all night. She just sat on his bed while he threw random shirts and knives into a bag and they joked about tv shows and school and Mickey couldn't pretend he wasn't sad to be leaving his sister.

When he left the next day she hugged him tight and whispered in his ear “don't forget to fucking call me you prick”, and Mickey felt like shit leaving her behind, but he left anyway.

He spared a brief thought for the redheaded Gallagher that had probably been the best thing in his life so far. He felt a pang of sadness for the fucked up life he was abandoning and regretted not getting to say goodbye to Ian, but like Max had said, he had a life to live. It was time to start living.

Ian always seemed to talk constantly. It annoyed Mickey at first but he had grown to love the constant optimistic chatter in his ear. Oh well, the things he loved never seemed to last anyway.

He got in the car with Max that night and they drove in silence.


	2. Oh, Boy

When they left the Southside they had driven for hours, on and on into the night. They crossed state lines soon enough, and kept going. Mickey lost track of where they were sometime around when the sun started rising over the long empty road in front of them. Max stopped once or twice for gas and energy drinks, but for the most part they drove for nearly three days straight. He let Mickey drive every now and then so he could get a couple of hours sleep. But now it was Mickey's turn in the passenger seat. A glance at a signpost had him jerking in his seat. He twisted round to look at Max so quickly he got whiplash

“Canada?!” Mickey exclaimed. “No way am I going to Canada. No fucking way!”

Max chuckled, amused. “Sorry Mickey, but that's where we're going.” Mickey was about to protest when Max spoke again.

“I can always take you back to Chicago”.

Mickey fell silent. In his mind, he was never going back to Chicago again – hell, even fucking Canada had to be better than that. So he turned his back on Max and glared at the countryside flying past the windows.

Fucking Canada. 

\--

Mickey spent a year at a training base a few hours out of Ontario. He rang Mandy every couple of weeks from an unknown number. She kept updated on Terry, their brothers, and even the odd story about whatever crazy shit the Gallaghers had got up to that week. Mickey always laughed with her, secretly happily that he knew Ian was okay. He missed Ian more than he thought he would, and he was glad Mandy was still keeping him happy. She often tried to get Mickey to tell her where he was, what he was doing, but he tended to hang up the phone whenever she started this line of questioning. She eventually caught on that Mickey did not want to be found, so she stopped asking.

The time went by quickly – his days taken up by firearms training, gym sessions, and - fuck him – math classes. He honestly thought he had left school behind him but nope! Here he was, calculating velocitys and forces and vectors. How could fucking triangles be this complicated?

It made him think of Ian Gallagher sometimes. Always challenging himself, pushing himself to get where he needed to go. Ian used to train for the army and take all those extra classes in the summer and Mickey and laughed at him for having a dream. For thinking he was good enough to get out. Made joked about the army and about “officers getting shot first”. 

But now here he was, a year later, and being set up with his first real assignment. He had been flown out to Miami under a false name. The job was simple – set up in a building across the street from the one some rich CEO was living in. Set up his gun, wait for the right moment, and – bang. One dead CEO. One job complete. One person's blood on his hands

Mickey's agency had rented out a room in the hotel for a night. He entered the room at six o' clock in the evening. His target was due to enter his apartment in the opposite building at six thirty. Mickey set up his gun and made sure everything was angled correctly. They had done all the calculations earlier, taking in account of the thickness of the glass on each window and the force of wind between the buildings. Everything was ready to go.

Mickey pulled a bottle of whiskey out of his bag a took a long sip from the bottle. He didn't feel bad about killing someone. He just felt cold. It was a numbness in his fingertips and in his chest. It was invisible fingertips running up his spine, and it was a cold breath on the back of his neck. He was cold – but he wasn't worried. He had a job to do.

The man entered the apartment at 6:28. Mickey followed his movements through the eyepiece attached to his gun, which was balanced perfectly on a tripod stand and the windowsill. The man poured himself a glass of wine and ruffled through some papers on a desk before sitting down on front of the tv on the wall facing Mickey. Mickey could only see the back of the man's head from his position, but it was enough. He concentrated on slowing his breathing and controlling his pulse like he had been trained to. He closed one eye and took aim. 

He squeezed the trigger. 

He heard the bullet pierce the glass and saw the back of the man's head slump forward, red blood seeping down the back of his neck.

Mickey stood up. Job done.

He packed up his equipment carefully. He took another long sip of whiskey before taking out his phone and sending a text. 

“It's done”.

Mickey didn't feel bad. He just felt cold.

\--

The next few years passed gently. Mickey had an apartment in New York, Seattle, Rome, and Mexico City. He traveled all over the world and took down some big names. He had made a reputation for himself as someone who could get the job done. Because that's all this was to him – a job. He got in, he got out, no one got hurt who didn't have to.

He was walking around his Seattle apartment one night, unable to sleep. He dug through the mostly empty fridge for a beer before collapsing on the couch. He thought about all the steps that had led him to where he was now.

Mickey had moved on from the agency Max had set him up with nearly eight years ago. Now people came to him. He had more money than he could imagine, but he didn't need it anymore. He sent most of what he got to Mandy, who was still living in the Milkovich house, only keeping what he needed. Mickey was good at this line of work so the money was pouring in. In this job, he really did make a killing.

He still called Mandy once a month or so. He would tell him about whatever douchebag she was seeing at the time and he would roll his eyes and tell her she could do better. She asked him sometimes if he was seeing anyone, he always said no. Sure he had a few guys in different cities he could call up when he was in the mood, but he had never met anyone he actually wanted to spend time with. His job meant he didn't get attached easily as he was used to moving from city to city with little warning. He was wanted by police all over the world – turns out even killing scumbags is illegal.

In crime circles and government offices he was known only as “The Assassin”. He was a contract killer, hard to find, and hard to buy. But he was the best of the best. He never made mistakes.

He never felt bad about killing people. He kept himself distant and clinical and never got any blood on his hands. But the cold feeling that echoed through his body the first time he took a life never went away. He just learned to live with it.

Sometimes he missed Chicago. He knew he missed Mandy – shit, he even missed Iggy. He missed shooting cans under the El and he missed the Kash and Grab and he missed the redhead he loved that summer years and years ago.

Sometime he wondered where Ian had ended up: did he go to Westpoint like he planned? Or did he just fuck off to some 'stan the minute he turned eighteen? Mandy hadn't spoken of him in years; Mickey assumed they had fallen out over one thing or another. He never asked. If he started talking about Ian, that could dredge up things he didn't want to think about. The last thing he wanted to do was start obsessing over the boy he abandoned years ago. For all Mickey knew, he could be dead. 

Mickey flinched at the thought.

\--

Mickey never made mistakes. He was careful and cautious and always did his research before carrying out a job. He prepared for any outcome, any turn of events. He was ready for anything that could possibly go wrong.

Of course it was Ian Goddamn Gallagher who went and fucked everything up.

\--

 

It was July and Mickey was setting his stuff up in an apartment across the street from his target's. He was on the sixth floor in a tiny apartment belonging to a man named Curtis James. “What a shitty fucking name”, Mickey thought to himself. “The dude is probably a major prick. Jesus what a shitty name.” Mickey shook his head, trying to get back to the task at hand. 

Curtis James was away on holiday for another week and his apartment was the perfect vantage point, so Mickey, like the petty criminal he once was, picked the lock one night and let himself in.

He was staking out his target in the next building. The man was some politician that had a deal with the Russian mob, but they were sure he was working against them. Mickey was to watch the man for a few days and wait to see if he recieved a package in the mail. The Russians didn't tell Mickey what the package would be, just that if the politician received one it meant he was working two sides and it was Mickey's job to take him out on the spot. 

So now here he was, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to his long range sniper rifle and someone's ugly couch watching (through a set of binoculars) a fifty year old man read the paper. Being a professional assassin looked like more fun on tv.

All of a sudden he heard keys turning in a lock and his heart dropped in his chest. Mickey froze, looking up where someone was about to walk in the door. Curtis James was supposed to be away all week! There were no plants in this shitty apartment so it couldn't be a friendly neighbour coming to water them. No cat to feed, no mail to collect. James must be back from his trip early, and Mickey was fucked. This was it – he would have to kill an innocent man or go to jail. 

And he wasn't going to go to jail.

Mickey pull the handgun he had for emergencies out of his kit bag and aimed it at the door, ready to shoot.

His jaw dropped as Ian Gallagher walked in the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep finding it really hard to not call Mickey's assassin-y gun his "massive weapon". 
> 
> on tumblr at fade-away-tonight


	3. Echoes

 

Speechless. Mickey had never been speechless in his life. Oh well. First time for everything, right?

 

Funny how Ian seemed to be around for many of Mickey's first times.

 

He stayed where he was, crouched on the floor with his gun pointed in the face of the man who had haunted his thoughts for years. His mouth was hanging open as if the words were going to fly out of it if he kept it open long enough. His head swam, he couldn't form a single thought. He thought he was going to pass out. Maybe he did.

 

His hands felt weak wrapped around the cold metal on the gun. Ian's eyes drilled into his and he could feel all the years and memories passing between them. The air was too still, one movement or word could fracture it, and then what would happen? The atmosphere around them would crack, the building would crumb beneath their feet, they would fall and fall like they had that summer long years ago, but they would still be there, staring into each others eyes, frozen and shattering, together – like they always would be.

 

The air was electric, hot and cold and smothering, both spinning and remaining motionless, and Mickey felt too dizzy to catch any of the words tumbling inside his head. Wait – one word. One word to describe how he felt seeing Ian again after all this time, one word to describe the situation he found himself in with this beautiful boy and the deadly weapon in between them. One word to describe everything.

 

 

_Fuck._

 

 

Ian, for his part, didn't flinch or look scared at the sight of the gun. He just froze, rooted to the spot, and stared into Mickey's eyes, hypnotized. Mickey. Mickey? Mickey was gone; he had ran away years ago. No one knew where, even Mandy didn't know. What was he doing here, eight years later, in Ian's apartment? Well he clearly wasn't here for a social visit judging by the amount of military equipment he was sitting beside – then again, it wasn't the first time Mickey had pointed a gun in Ian's face.

 

 

After all, their relationship always had been rooted in violence.

 

 

Time stood still, or maybe they just sat staring at each other for minutes, hours, days. Ian, finding that absolutely nothing could be said or done to properly break the tension they found themselves in, thought he nearly started nodding minisculy. He started breathing again, and chanced some words.

 

 

“I was gonna make some coffee, you want some?” It was quite possibly the stupidest thing he could have said, but it seemed to work, Mickey relaxed slightly, lowered the gun and nodded cautiously.

 

“Sure.” And suddenly, the corner of his mouth twitched upwards slightly, and then he couldn't he it, he was smiling at Ian, grinning, laughing at the utter ridiculousness of the situation they had found themselves in. Ian return the grin slowly and shook his head in exasperation.

 

Mickey fucking Milkovich. In his apartment. With a gun. “ _Want some coffee?” “sure”._ Jesus Christ. 

 

Ian exhaled the breath he had been holding and walked towards the kitchen away from the dark haired man that had been so close to shooting him in the face. Ian always did have a strange choice in men.

 

Mickey watched the redhead walk away. He looked different than Mickey remembered, although, he supposed, eight years would do that to a guy. His hair was longer now, no longer the army wannabe buzzcut Ian had sported during his ROTC days. Mickey thought fondly back to their spots on the roofs of the buildings of Chicago. They set up targets and obstacle courses and Mickey pretended he was just helping him because wanted to shoot guns at Ian while he ran, but Mickey knew it was because it was another opportunity to spend time with the redhead. (But then again, he did enjoy shooting at a moving target.)

 

When they had first gotten together Ian was a child, skinny and freckly. Too innocent. Too good. By the time Mickey had gotten out of juvy Ian was almost unrecognizable. He was taller, stronger, more confident. Well capable of taking Mickey in a fight. Capable of beating Mickey in a fight.

 

Now Gallagher was even taller, Mickey knew if they were standing close together there would be a noticeable height difference. Ian was also much skinnier than he used to be. His jeans were tight around his skinny legs and he looked weak. His skin was probably paler than Mickey's, and that was saying something. Mickey finally stood up, gently putting the gun on the floor and cautiously moved towards the small kitchen. Ian was there leaning against the counter with his arms across his chest. His shoulder bones jutted out against his thin t-shirt. His eyes were focused on the floor but as Mickey moved into the room they flicked up swiftly.

 

Mickey was once again at a loss for words under the scrutiny of those glassy green eyes. Fortunately, Ian was once again the first to break the silence.

 

“So...uh, what's up?” Ian asked awkwardly. Mickey couldn't help but snort at the casualness of the question. But if Ian wanted to play it cool, then Mickey could too. He could be cool.

 

“Nothing, man, you know... whatever...” he leaned sideways into the wall nonchalantly, picking at a thread on his shirt. Ian nodded as if everything was perfectly fine. Which of course, it was not. He poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Mickey slowly as if worried he would frighten him with any unexpected movements. The coffee was black with two spoons of sugar, just the way Mickey made for himself. He always did like it sweet.

 

“So... random question, no reason for it or anything but uh... is there a reason you're in my apartment with a giant fucking gun? And also a smaller fucking gun? Not that it's not nice to see you, but like, uh... what the fuck?” Ian stopped speaking, then realizing he had said everything he wanted to say at that moment, just nodded, indicating to Mickey that it was his turn to say something.

 

Mickey took a sip of his coffee before speaking. “I gotta be honest man, this wasn't really a social visit. I thought you were on holiday all week, I was hoping to be done and gone before you came back.” Ian frowned. How did Mickey know he was going on a holiday? What was he hoping to do? Was he really going to make a visit to Ian's apartment but not wait for the owner himself?

 

Ian was about to start voicing a question when Mickey interrupted. “Hang on man, why the fuck is the name on the lease Curtis fucking James?” Ian face painted itself in a twisted smirk and Mickey saw something terrifying in the expression. “That's my name now,” he stated simply.

 

Mickey frowned. “What do you mean that's your name?”

 

Ian shook his head, his face once again in that ugly, tortured grin. His eyes were shining, too bright. “It's been a long time, Mick.”

 

Mickey felt a jolt go through him as Ian breathed out his name. The only person he had heard speak his name in – what, nearly five years - was Mandy. He liked that the rest of the world was trying to catch him, learn his name, track him down, and Ian had done all these things just by existing.

 

But Mickey also knew now, that this Ian was not his Ian, this man was not the boy he loved in Southside Chicago. Now they were older, in a different city than the one they grew up in, and both more broken than they had ever been before. Mickey didn't know how Ian's story had gone after he left town, and now he wasn't sure he wanted to find out. There was something in the redhead's eyes that frightened him – and he was a professional assassin for God's sake. But he was unnerved – how could someone he felt he knew and understood so well also feel like a stranger? Sure this Ian had the similarities his Ian had, but there was no doubt in Mickey's mind that this was not his Ian.

 

No, not his Ian. Never his Ian.

 

The younger man stepped forward, inching closer to Mickey. Despite being too skinny and tired looking, Ian was still bigger than him and the way his eyes twitched made Mickey anxious. Ian's lanky body was loose and terrifying and he approached Mickey so, so, slowly, like a predator approaching its prey. Mickey stopped breathing.

 

Ian tilted his head at Mickey, gauging his reaction. His eyes narrowed. Mickey thought back to those nature documentaries he used to watch when he was a kid. What do you do if you get cornered by a wild animal? Do you stare it down, try to intimidate it? Or do you play dead and hope it looses interest and leaves you alone? Or the rarely mentioned third option – do you hightail it the fuck outta there as fast you possible can? Mickey didn't know which choice was most fitting in this situation. Maybe running. Running away sounded really good right now.

 

Ian lifted his head up and squared his shoulders. _He's preparing for conflict,_ Mickey thought to himself. For some reason David Attenborough's voice seemed to be narrating the entire scene in Mickey's head. _“And here we see the wild gingerbeast in his nest. The gingerbeast does not take kindly to strangers invading his territory. We see him now, ready to pounce on the intruder.”_

 

“What are you doing here, Mickey?”

 

The older man didn't know what the right answer was; he couldn't just say _“oh don't worry about it, man, I'm just using your living room as a hideout while I plan a murder, no biggie.”_

 

“Are you here for me?” Ian's voice was smaller now, more afraid. Mickey saw no choice but to answer honestly.

 

“No.”

 

Ian nodded, expecting this answer. “The guns?”

 

Mickey didn't know what to say. Maybe telling the truth really was the only option here. But how did he know he could trust Ian after all these years? He didn't see a choice now. Maybe he didn't want to.

 

“I'm working a job. I didn't know you lived here, that's just one big fucking coincidence.” Mickey's words faltered for a moment as he decided what he was going to say next. “Sorry for pointing a gun at you by the way, uh, wouldn't have done it if I'd known it was you.” Shit. Why did he say that?

 

But Ian only looked more curious. Fortunately he also looked much less threatening than he previously did. “It was a coincidence? That's it?” He looked... disappointed?

 

Mickey nodded. “Yeah. Sorry.” He didn't know what he was sorry for but he knew there was definitely something.

 

“You really didn't know it was my apartment?”

 

“Nope.”

 

Ian paused, considering his next words carefully. “Are you staying here till you finish your job? Cause you can, you know. If you want.”

 

Did Ian just invite him to stay? With him?

 

There were so many reasons to say no, to move on, to get out of there as fast as fucking possible. Saying yes would be a mistake, Mickey knew that. He couldn't get involved with Ian again, and not just because of his profession: falling for Ian would be so, so easy. Even after all these years, Mickey could feel the pull of him like a magnet. _Say no. Say no. Say no._

 

“Okay”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmm story development :D thanks for reading everyone!
> 
> don't follow me on tumblr at fade-away-tonight


	4. Casual Affair

 

After their chat in the kitchen Mickey returned to the living room and sat back in his position on the floor.

 

Ian followed him in and sat on the ratty couch. He watched as Mickey peered through his binoculars to the building on the other side of the street. Mickey checked his watch. The politician he was waiting for still hadn't moved from his spot, still reading his newspaper and sipping his coffee. He put the binoculars down and sighed.

 

Ian was curious, obviously, but didn't know how much Mickey would want to say to him. After all, they hadn't seen each other in years, not since Mickey had disappeared without even a goodbye. Ian had noticed Mickey's absence from the neighbourhood immediately. When Mickey hadn't shown up to the Kash and Grab one day for his shift, Ian assumed he had finally given up on being an working member of society, so he didn't worry. But when he went to the Milkovich's house the next day, Mickey wasn't there. He remembered the conversation he had had with Mandy.

 

“ _Hey, where's Mickey these days?” Ian asked, trying to sound casual as he threw popcorn kernels into his mouth one by one. Mandy was sitting on the other side of the couch laughing at his failed attempts._

 

“ _Why, he owe you money or something?” she replied, uninterested. Ian looked at the floor so as to not have to lie to her face._

_  
“Nah, he just didn't show up for work for a few days. Linda was asking,” he lied. He felt terrible for lying to his best friend, but it wasn't only his secret he was keeping. He finally looked up at Mandy. She had a wistful kind of look on her face. Sadness._

 

“ _He fucked off somewhere. Left the city. I don't know where he went, he wouldn't tell me. Asshole.”_

 

_Ian's breath stopped._

 

 

_Mickey was gone. Mickey had left him._

 

 

_Ian was alone._

 

 

Now, eight years later, Ian gazed down sadly at the man he once loved. Mickey was stronger now than he was back then. Then all of Mickey's exercise came from punching people in the face and the occasional run from the police; now, however, Mickey's body was toned, strong. He still wasn't tall, but he was fit and looked confident in his skin. It wasn't a look Ian had ever seen on Mickey before.

 

After a few minutes passed silently with Ian staring at Mickey and Mickey staring out the window, Ian finally spoke.

 

“So, what's the job?”

 

Mickey looked at him, a small smile forming on his face. “I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you,” he joked, smirking as he did so.

It wasn't even that far from the truth.

 

Ian didn't laugh. He nodded at the guns. “I guessed that.”

 

Mickey didn't particularly want to do a friendly catch up with the stranger sitting before him, but he felt some sort of obligation to at least say _something._ Ian kept looking straight into his eyes, not looking away for an instant. He decided to just go for it, it could hurt to get to know the man, could it?

 

“So what have you been up to? I thought you were heading off to the army?”

 

Apparently that was the wrong the to say as Ian's face went dark and Mickey once again saw the ugly haunted look grace the younger boy's skin. Anger seemed to flash in Ian's eyes for a split second, before he shrugged and put on his mask of indifference again. “Army – tried it, didn't work out.” He waved his arms and spoke brokenly. “It... wasn't right for me. I left it pretty soon after I joined.”

 

Mickey's eyebrows pulled together. “But that was like your dream, man, what happened?”

 

Ian laughed hysterically. He bent over and fell about the couch, shaking manically. His laughter continued on and on and it scared the shit out of Mickey. Ian finally sat up and wiped at his eyes, still chuckling horrifically. His mouth finally formed words.

 

“Mickey, Mickey, Mickey...” Ian shook his head a few times then leaned forward and grabbed Mickey's face between his hands. He moved his head closer to the older man's and looked him directly in the eyes. Mickey thought Ian was going to kiss him, but Ian stopped moving a few inches away from Mickey's face. He gripped Mickey's head tightly and whispered his next words.

 

“Everything happened. Everything.”

 

Ian suddenly flung his arms backwards and shot back onto the couch putting distance away from himself and Mickey. Mickey remained motionless, frozen on the floor, once again.

 

Ian snickered to himself again, his arms curled up around his knees. He kept on shaking his head erratically, rocking forwards and backwards. Mickey thought he was going to speak again, or at least do something, but Ian kept shaking until Mickey realized he wasn't just moving, he was shivering. He saw the dark lines under Ian's eyes and the paleness of his skin. His lips were too red and his eyes too wide. Mickey had never seen Ian like this before – he had never seen anyone like this before. Mickey stood up slowly, reaching an arm out to Ian tentatively, trying to steady his shaking.

 

“Ian? You okay?”

 

Ian flinched at the sound of his name and looked up at Mickey. He reached out to the front of Mickey's shirt and pulled himself up into a standing position. He put one hand on the back of Mickey's neck, gripping his hair tightly, his eyes wild and unfocused.

 

“Why did you come back, Mick? Why?”

 

Ian wobbled slightly before his legs gave out from under him. Mickey tried to grab him but Ian hit the ground and didn't get up.

 

\--

 

_What the fuck?_

 

Mickey crouched down and put his hands on Ian neck, looking for a pulse. He found one, but it was weak, out of tempo. He rolled Ian over onto his back and slowly reached out to touch his face, smoothing his messy hair back from his eyes. Ian was breathing slowly and shallowly. His face was burning up, his skin hot to touch. Mickey shook his head in exasperation. _Of course, who could possibly fuck up his life more than Ian Gallagher?_ Answer: No one.

 

Mickey picked up Ian in a fireman's lift and carried him over to the bedroom he had found on his first reconnaissance of the apartment. Ian was skinny and frail,but he was still bigger than Mickey so the movement across the small apartment was slow. Mickey gently set Ian down on the bed, pulling off his shoes and wrapping the covers tightly around him. Ian sniffed in his sleep and curled up in a ball on his side. Mickey went to the kitchen, found a rough towel and soaked it in cool water from the tap. Making his way back to the bedside, he smoothed the damp cloth over Ian's forehead in an attempt to cool down his body. Over the next few minutes Ian's breathing slowed and his body relaxed under Mickey's gentle touch.

 

Mickey, however, was as far from relaxed as he had ever been. His mind was thundering with all the emotions running through him: shock, worry, fear, anger, regret, sadness, hope?

 

He didn't have a clue what was wrong with Ian, but it was definitely bad: this man was so different to the calm, optimistic boy he once was.

 

Mickey felt an immense wave of shame run through his body. Was this what him leaving had done to Ian? No way, they weren't that close. They had only been fucking, they weren't in love. Were they? There was no way that whatever happened to Ian was his fault. No way.

 

 

So why did he feel like it was?

 

 

Mickey made his way back to his post beside the window. Luckily for him, the aging politician in the next building was still in his spot and the table. He wasn't reading the paper anymore, but writing something down on a thick notepad. He assumed Ian would be out for a few hours anyway, so he tried to distract himself from the boredom and worry.

 

Mickey settled back against the couch and filled his head with thoughts of sweat and baseball fields and cigarette smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lotta angst i think but w/ever. Listened to casual affair by panic! at the disco while writing so hence the chapter name :P I never realised how difficult it was to name chapters like wow it's harder than writing the chapter lol
> 
> anyway okie dokie thanks for reading
> 
> on tumblr at fade-away-tonight :) x


	5. The Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is longer than the previous ones. That is a fact.

 

 

Outside the window the clouds drifted across the sky slowly. The sun beat down on the split pavements of the sprawling, lazy city below. It looked hot, it was July after all.

 

The apartment was cold and grey.

 

Mickey had been sitting in his position on the floor for most of the last two days, and his body felt cramped and tired. The target he was watching had been pottering about his apartment for a few hours now, and Mickey had never been more bored in his life. In an attempt to stop his thoughts from drifting to the man still unconscious in the bedroom, he had been going back through his memories – but only the good ones. He thought of hanging out with Mandy, getting high, working with Ian in the Kash and Grab, exploring abandoned buildings with Ian, being with Ian, Ian...

 

He got to his feet and stretched, grunting deeply. His muscles ached from sitting still. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his joints as he made his way to the kitchen to look or something to eat. Glancing in the fridge and through the dusty cupboards left him with a total of three beers, four eggs, some energy bars, and... salt? _Oh shit._ Cocaine.

 

Was Ian doing drugs? It would make sense, considering his behaviour earlier that day. It was easy to get coke in a shitty area in a shitty city like this, so it certainly was possible. Mickey shook his head, wondering how Ian had fallen so far from the boy he once was. He put the small plastic bag filled with the white powder back in the drawer where he found it and went about cooking some eggs. His stomach growled and he cursed himself for not eating something sooner. He always did this on jobs – forgot to eat, or to sleep even. It was unprofessional, he couldn't let himself get distracted in this line of work. Distractions meant prison or death. Unfortunately for Mickey, his biggest distraction had woken up at the smell of the sizzling eggs and was shuffling into the kitchen, scratching his head.

 

“Mickey?” Mickey turned around at the sound of his name, and lost his breath at the sight of the younger man. Ian had one hand in his messy hair, the red flames glinting in the dim lighting. His eyes were blurry with sleep and he rubbed at them with his other hand. He looked broken.

 

He looked beautiful.

 

“Uh, hey. How are you feeling?” Ian looked confused at the question and peered through narrowed eyes at Mickey. “What are you doing in my apartment?” Ian asked. Did he not remember inviting Mickey to stay? “... are you making eggs?”

 

Mickey huffed out a laugh. Of course Ian would be distracted by food. “Yeah, you want some?” he asked, cracking open another egg into the pan.

 

Ian nodded and sat on a stool at the counter. He looked watch the muscles on Mickey's back ripple with his casual movements. He saw the tendons stretch and the muscles on Mickey's shoulders and arms jutted out with every motion of his body. His waist was thinner than his shoulders, his arms toned and built. He wanted to reach out, raise a hand to touch Mickey's shoulder, to feel the strong muscles burn under his fingertips, run his hands down Mickey's arm to his wrist then trace his fingers back up to his shoulder, moving slowly over to cup his neck and -

 

“Yo, sleepyhead, you listening to me?”

 

Ian jolted out his fantasy. “What?”

 

Mickey rolled his eyes. “I asked, are you feeling okay?” Ian looked confused. He felt tired, sure, maybe his head hurt a bit, but he was fine. Right?

 

“Yeah?” he answered nervously. “Why wouldn't I be?” Mickey seemed angry at his reply.

 

“Uh, because you kind of collapsed on me earlier? Or do you not remember that?”

 

Ian thought back to that morning. He had left the airport on the bus back to his area of town, walked the last few blocks to his building, took the stairs up to his apartment because the elevator was broken... and woke up in bed. But he remembered seeing Mickey, or at least he had been aware of his presence. He thought he had dreamed that Mickey had been there until he got up and went into the kitchen. Mickey was really here, in his apartment. But why did he not remember talking to him already?

 

“No, I don't remember.”

 

Mickey looked exasperated, furious. Worried. He passive-aggressively (or maybe just aggressively) dropped Ian's plate of eggs on front of him before serving himself. He glared at Ian as they ate their food silently. Mickey wanted an explanation for Ian's erratic behaviour. He was going to get one. He thought he would start with the simplest question and see how it went from there,

 

“Why did you come back early?”

 

Ian looked up from his plate. “From the trip? They wouldn't let me on the plane – said they couldn't let anyone on if they were “ _under the influence.”_ ” Ian made quotation marks with his fingers as he spoke.

 

“You were drunk?”

 

Ian waved his hand dismissively. “Nah, high. Punched through wall.” Ian laughed. Mickey stopped paying attention to his food.

 

Mickey opened his mouth to keep questioning Ian, but stopped, wondering if he really wanted to get caught up with the boy again. He seemed to be in a bad place, while Mickey was in a relatively good one. Was he really going to trade the life he had made for himself to get involved with Ian? He had already left him behind once, would it be so hard to do it again?

 

Mickey kept his gaze on Ian, who was refusing to meet his eyes.

 

“Man, what happened to you?”

 

The question sounded rhetorical and Ian finally looked up. They stared each other, their food abandoned, and the atmosphere in the room quickly changed. It was more tense, more thick, more dangerous. Ian's mouth opened slightly and Mickey dropped his gaze to look at his lips. After a few seconds he glanced up from Ian's mouth and looked him in the eye. Mickey bit his lip out of habit and noticed how Ian's eyes flared. He tilted his chin up slightly and Ian echoed the movement. The kitchen counter was still separating their bodies but Mickey was sure he could defy the laws of physics and move through the island if he tried hard enough. He breathed in sharply, his head spinning. His tongue darted out to soothe his lip where he had bitten down sharply and Ian made a groaning sound. Mickey wanted to walk over to him, put his arms around him, do everything he wanted to in his head, but somehow he stopped himself. He knew this wasn't the time. Not when he was working a job and Ian was as fucked up as he appeared to be. Ian was still watching him intently, apparently waiting for him to make a move, but Mickey just shook his head and left the room.

 

 

After a few seconds, Ian followed Mickey into the living room, breathing angrily. “Mickey, what the fuck?”

 

Mickey ignored him, heading over to the window. But Ian had other intentions, He grabbed the older man's arm and twisted his body around roughly. “You can't just show back up into my life after eight fucking years with no fucking explanation! Where did you go, Mickey? What was so important that you had to leave me?”

 

That got Mickey's attention. “I didn't fucking leave you, Ian, I got out! I got a chance to leave my shitty life, and I took it! If I could go back now, I would still take that chance, because anything, _anything,_ had to be better than there.” Mickey was fuming, breathing heavily.

 

“Did I not mean anything to you? Was I not even worth one fucking goodbye?” Ian looked a mess, eyes wild and bloodshot as he kept closing the distance between him and Mickey. It was one thing Mickey had regretted – not saying goodbye to Ian. He had consoled himself by thinking that Ian would just move on after he left, find someone new to fuck, but no, apparently Mickey's leaving had had a greater affect on Ian than he thought it would.

 

“I... I know I should have told you I was leaving, but I was afraid you would try and stop me.” _I was afraid you'd try and come with me._ Mickey had liked Ian back then, maybe as more than just a regular fuck, but he wasn't prepared to deal with a relationship or any sort of commitment. He hadn't told Ian because it would make leaving too hard. “I needed to go, Ian, you know how bad it was for me in that house.” Ian did know, vaguely, what went on inside the Milkovich House of Horrors.

 

He knew that Terry had abused all his children in different ways, but Mandy and Mickey the most. Mandy because she was a girl, and an easy target. Mickey, because he was the smartest of all the Milkovich's, and Terry was afraid that Mickey would try and take over as head of the Milkovich clan. The youngest son, the smallest, the brightest. Terry despised him for being their mother's favourite because he was “softer” than his brothers. Terry tried to beat out the goodness in Mickey at every opportunity. Sometimes Mandy would come in to school frightened and twitchy and when Ian asked her what was wrong she would say something like “It's nothing. Dad just got mad last night.” She would shrug it off and Ian knew that she was hurting more than she would ever say. He would ask if she was okay, and she always tended to reply “yeah, I'm fine, Mickey got the worst of it.” Ian would see Mickey a couple of days later when he came back to work, and Ian knew he was the only person who got to see the bruises and scars Mickey hid under his shirt.

 

Ian could only imagine what Terry would do if he found out Mickey was gay.

 

Mickey started speaking again, bringing Ian back to the present. “I thought you would just forget about me, move on, whatever. I didn't think you cared that much.”

 

Ian gaped. “Of course I cared, Mickey, you were the best thing that ever happened to me.” Mickey's face softened at the words and Ian felt his face go red.

 

“Ian... after I left, what happened to you? Because we both know this,” Mickey waved his arm around, indicating the apartment, “wasn't what you were looking for out of life.”

 

Ian was torn. He wanted to tell Mickey the truth, everything that had happened, everything he had done, but he did want Mickey to know how far he was from the boy he used to be.

 

He decided on telling the truth. Some of it, at least.

 

“After you left, I, uh, I don't know, I just sort of assumed you would come back after a while. But you didn't so...” Mickey couldn't help feeling immensely guilty at these words. Ian shrugged and ran his hands through his hair. “My mom came back a few months after you left. It was great, she spent all our savings and slit her wrists over Thanksgiving dinner.”

 

Mickey breathed in, shocked, but Ian wasn't finished. “After that, I started hanging around Boystown. Started seeing some older guys, like Fiona's boyfriend's dad. He was nice actually, bought me room service.” Mickey knew from experience that Ian wasn't exactly hard to get, but he was allowing himself to be bought over _room service?_ And Mickey had met Fiona's boyfriend, he was like thirty. How fucking old was his father?

 

“I kind of lost it after that. Ran off to the army under Lip's name because I was still underage. Had, um, some... problems with some of the officers there...” Mickey's eyes narrowed, not liking what Ian was implying, but let him continue without any questions. “I fucked up bad. Didn't know how to get out. Tried to steal a helicopter, crashed it, ran off before they could arrest me.” Mickey's eyebrow jumped upwards.

 

“Since then I've just been... drifting. Lived at home for a couple of weeks at a time, but they realized quickly that they really didn't want me there.” Ian looked heartbroken, having apparently been disowned from his family. Mickey knew he must have been in a bad state then: the Gallaghers would _never_ abandon one of their own – they even looked after Frank when he really needed it. How bad could Ian have been? “I was homeless for a long time, living off dinners guys would buy me before I went home with them. Stayed with my mom and her boyfriend for a while but he wasn't too happy with having me around, said I was worse than Monica. Oh, and somewhere along the way I got diagnosed bipolar like Monica, because I'm not fucked up enough already.”

 

Ian finally stopped speaking, having exhausted himself at the rapid speed of his words. A tear slowly rolled down his cheek and he looked so _broken._

 

“So here I am,” Ian stated sadly. He waved around the tiny, dirty apartment that was all he had to show for the last twenty four years of his life. “What happened to me?” he echoed Mickey's question from earlier, then he paused. “Life happened.”

 

Mickey was silent. Hearing Ian's story had been hard, to say the least. He couldn't help but feel that if he had stayed in Chicago all those years ago, Ian's life would have turned out differently. He didn't know what he could say to Ian – _sorry_ didn't really cover it.

 

Mickey tried to choke out some sort of response. “Ian – I... fuck.”

 

Ian laughed. “Yeah. _Fuck”._

 

He turned and left the room. Mickey heard the shower running a few minutes later. He fell back into his familiar position on the floor looking out the window. The clouds still rolled across the sky and the sun still beat down relentlessly on the city. The man in the opposite building was still wandering around his apartment with no noticeable worry or stress. His facial expression hadn't changed from its relaxed position since Mickey had started watching him several days ago.

 

At least some things never change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow angst 
> 
> I feel like anything bad you could imagine Ian possibly doing, he's done it. Like, anything. I actually felt really bad for him in this chapter. But I suppose it's a good sign if my own writing can make me emotional.
> 
> On tumblr: fade-away-tonight

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr at fade-away-tonight :) thanks for reading!!


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